


Strays

by wowriley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animals, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Kidlock, Kittens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wowriley/pseuds/wowriley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Mycroft Holmes slowly learned to love cats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strays

**Author's Note:**

> As my mom and I are fostering some kittens at the time, I had a story idea and went with it.
> 
> Rated for brief swearing and one tiny sexual reference that you'll miss if you blink.

Mycroft had never been one for animals, though he had grown up with a variety of them - all thanks to Sherlock. 

The Holmes brothers grew up in a large house, their family one of money and status. The two story home was fairly roomy for the four of them, especially since Mummy and Daddy weren’t home as often as they probably should’ve been. House to themselves, Mycroft usually kept to his room after school, Sherlock usually hung around in the woods out back. Most days the younger Holmes would come in for dinner - that Mycroft had fixed - covered head to toe in dirt. This irritated his brother to no end, but that and the scrapes and even the times he wouldn’t leave him alone, weren’t as bad as the _animals_.

It started with a toad. Mycroft - fifteen at the time - called outside to alert his brother that supper was ready. Five minutes later, Sherlock trotted in through the back door, dried mud sticking to anything below his calves, dirty hands cupped to his chest. “Not hungry,” he muttered, determined eyes down on his hands.

Mycroft crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows in an attempt to be stern. “Sherlock, you have to eat. You know what Mummy’s told you about skipping meals.”

Sherlock grunted in response, and again when he walked right into his brother as he was headed for his bedroom.

“What have you got?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s obviously _something_.”

Blue eyes finally turned up to look at Mycroft, the younger of the two frowned. “It’s none of your business; let me go.”

“ _Show me_.”

Reluctantly the seven year old opened up his hands to reveal the amphibian.

“You can’t bring those in here - go put it back.”

“ _Him_.”

“What?”

“It’s a he, and he has a name.” Sherlock covered the creature back up with his fingers. “His name’s Fabian.”

“Just something you would name a toad,” Mycroft murmured to himself with a sigh, turning to scoop some spaghetti onto two plates. He did his best to ignore the mess of a child standing a few feet from him. He took his time putting sauce on the noodles - sauce with meat for Mycroft, sauce without meat for Sherlock (the texture put him off). 

There was absolutely no way that toad was staying in this house. Mycroft took a moment to consider the fact that he’d never actually asked his parents about pets, but there’d never been any need before now. Given the fact that they were home less and less, why should they have a say anyways? Taking the plates over to the island, Mycroft went for silverware with the thought in mind that they could probably have all kinds of pets. He should’ve told Sherlock this, but what he actually said was:

“Put Fabian back outside, go wash your hands, and come back here and eat before your food gets cold.”

 

“Christ!”

Mycroft shot up in bed and scooted to the farthest corner from Sherlock that he could, bringing his knees up to his chest. His heart pounding in his ears, he kept replaying the sounds that woke him up.

“Mycroft, I want you to meet Alastair.”

“That’s a snake, Sherlock. You brought a snake into my bedroom at... one in the morning.”

“Oh.” Sherlock watched as the garden snake curled lazily around his arm. “Next time I’ll wait until you’re up.”

Mycroft reached over to his bedside table and flicked the lamp on, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. “There will be no next time.” He hesitated, unsure of what to do next. A good brother would take the animal to make sure he was safe; but in that moment Mycroft wasn’t sure he was that good of a brother. Maybe just an okay one. He bit his lip thoughtfully; the thing seemed perfectly okay. He might as well let Sherlock take it back out.

Carefully, Mycroft took Sherlock by the shoulders and steered him around, pushing him lightly in the direction of the door. “We have no way to care for Alastair. He’ll be much happier in his home outside.”

Sherlock trudged downstairs grumbling to himself, clearly unhappy with his brother and too tired to control his frustration. Mycroft didn’t care, though; he’d deal with his anger in the morning.

 

“He followed me home.”

“You’re lying.”

Sherlock sat beside his messenger bag in the entrance to their home, his next animal wriggling in his arms. His brother watched on disapprovingly as the mutt licked at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyes, however, were on him.

“I’ll take care of him.”

“No.”

“His name’s Clive.”

“ _No_.”

Sherlock turned to address the pup. “I’d bet I can have you fetching in a couple of hours.”

 

And so it went, followed by a bird with a broken wing (Alexandria), a handful of lizards (Hugo, Tobias, Ronald, Edward, and Skylar), another snake (Mycroft II), and two more dogs (Nikola and Adrianne), only a few of which actually stayed. The fact that any stayed at all was reason to make Mycroft quite angry. But eventually he grew up, moved out into his first flat, out of that flat and into a nicer flat, then into a place with Greg.

With the day he’d had, Mycroft would consider ‘stressful’ a grave understatement. Halfway through the door the man was already calling out to Greg to say hello, get a kiss hopefully. He immediately went to unbutton his jacket and waistcoat and slipped off his tie, leaving him in the much more comfortable option of dress pants and a button down shirt.

“Gregory?”

Laying the clothes he’d shed on the kitchen table temporarily and slipping off his shoes, Mycroft looked around in confusion. Greg was supposed to be off by now. As he wandered into the bedroom, going over the list of who he’d need to give a nice, clear phone call, he stopped in his tracks at the sight of the cracked bathroom door.

“Gregory...”

“In here,” came a hissed reply. Mycroft sighed and opened the door, still confused, but mostly just happy he could be held by his boyfriend.

“Shh, they’re asleep.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping the sight of Greg on the bathroom floor, three kittens asleep on his lap, would turn out to be a vision from his stressed out mind. The detective grinned up at him. Mycroft frowned.

“Oh, relax, they’re not ours.”

To that he could at least breathe.

Greg looked down and stroked the ears of one of them. “Aren’t they sweet?”

“Why do you have them?” Mycroft sank down beside the other man, placing a kiss on his cheek as he did so.

“A friend of mine found them and needed a foster home,” Greg explained. “I said we could look after them until the people who want them are in town.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, eyeing the balls of fur suspiciously. The one the detective had been petting twitched, shaking its head, and slowly got up to stretch. Its grey fur stuck out in all directions. It gave Mycroft no notice as it padded over to the food dish.

“That one’s Rory, this one here,” Greg patted the Calico, “is John, and the orange one’s Amy.” He looked over and caught the amusement in Mycroft’s eye. “Not my idea, love. But I probably would’ve called them that, too.” Mycroft snorted. He shrugged.

John yawned and went over to play with his brother’s tail; Rory flipped around and tackled him. Both of the men smiled - Greg because of the kittens, Mycroft because of Greg.

“I was actually hoping you’d be home soon.” The detective ran a hand through his silver hair, turning back to look at Mycroft. “I haven’t had dinner yet and I was hoping you could watch these three while I made something.”

“I don’t believe Angelo’s delivers at this time of night,” Mycroft teased.

“You’re hilarious,” Greg responded dryly.

For a moment the two just smiled at each other, before Greg pressed a firm kiss to his lover’s mouth. “She’s a bit scared but she just needs to be socialized,” he explained as he brought Amy over to Mycroft’s hands.

“Kittens don’t need to be watched at all times, from what I understand.” Mycroft held her away from his chest warily. “They aren’t like children.”

Greg got up and stretched, knees popping as he did so. “But I want them to get to know you.” He smiled down at the man and the kitten briefly before leaving the bathroom and Mycroft’s protests behind him.

Mycroft sighed as he felt Amy starting to squirm in his hands. Reluctantly he brought her close to his chest to keep her still, and after a minute he decided she’d be more comfortable cradled in his elbow. It wasn’t as horrible as he’d been anticipating, but the sooner Greg got back, the better. He heard the clink of bottles as his boyfriend pulled a beer from the fridge, and while he listened he didn’t notice John come over to sniff at his trousers.

“Oh, hello,” he whispered, edging his leg away from the animal. John had already decided, though, that Mycroft would make a nice substitute tree, and he quickly hopped onto the man’s lap and clawed his way up - Mycroft trying to stop him by telling him that no, no he shouldn’t climb on people - until he sat on his shoulder. “Oh dear, I don’t think you’re supposed to be up there,” Mycroft told him nervously, trying to make sure he didn’t fall off. John seemed just fine, though, and started chewing on the ginger hair behind the ear in front of him.

“Please stop,” Mycroft half-begged, neck now tilted at an uncomfortable angle. He jumped slightly when another set of teeth clamped over his foot. “Rory!” He admonished, attempting to shake him free but only causing the cat to hold on tighter. Groaning, he looked back down at Amy, who didn’t look so scared of him anymore. He ran his finger up the side of her face lightly with a sigh. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He chuckled as the kitten mewed.

“You might be a little sweet. But don’t tell Gregory I said anything.”

“Tell Gregory you said what?” The silver haired man peeked around the corner, half eaten sandwich in hand. He swallowed, then proceeded to turn to goo watching the others. “Aww, they _like_ you,” he smiled.

“They’re _attacking_ me.”

Greg shook his head and took a large bite of his sandwich. “Nah, they’re just playing,” he assured through bites.

Rory had given up trying to play with Mycroft’s foot, and resigned to simply laying with his paws loosely around it. John acted as if he was starting to want down finally.

“Here, let me help you.” With his free hand the man scooped the kitten off Mycroft’s shoulder and lowered him back onto the ground. “You eaten yet?”

Mycroft shook his head.

“Put Amy on those towels and come get something, then.”

The two men ambled back into the kitchen, Greg going to sit at the small table off one wall. He continued eating while Mycroft searched the cupboard for a can of soup to fix. He stirred the soup as it heated up, the room silent in an unspoken agreement that yeah, it had been a long day.

When the soup was finished he brought it over to sit across from Greg, who was just sipping on his beer by then. “I can’t believe I’ve never asked before - did you have any pets growing up? I assumed you hadn’t...”

“I did not.” Mycroft dipped his head to blow on the food on his spoon. “But Sherlock had quite a few.”

“Hm.” Greg took a long swig of his drink. “I just thought you might’ve had some cats, with the way they took to you.”

“You know that’s ridiculous.” Mycroft ate the cooled spoonful, chewing and swallowing before he continued, “Animals can’t sense whether or not people like their species.”

“I know, I know. I was just...” He trailed off, rubbing his hand of his face sleepily. “Would you ever want one of your own?”

“A cat?”

“Yeah.”

“Not at all.”

 

Mycroft was bathing, sat beneath a thick sheet of warm bubbles. Greg sat by the sink, hands moving around in the air as he spoke about his day. The kittens were huddled around the plate on the ground, lapping at the wet food.

“And then Sherlock showed up, insulted _both_ the grieving parents, told me the solution was obvious and that I should’ve just texted him first, and left.” He sighed and looked down to watch the tiny critters. “So yeah, that was my day. Your turn.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft’s brows pulled together, partially at what Greg had been ranting about, partially at the thoughts of his own day. “My day was mostly paperwork,” he replied finally. “I attended a few meetings, but they were hardly noteworthy.”

The two listened to the football match playing on their bedroom telly in the background. “Rory’s coming over to you,” Greg mumbled, just before the grey kitten hopped awkwardly onto the bathtub ledge. Mycroft watched him skeptically as he started sniffing at the bubbles, flinching away when some stuck to his nose. This didn’t seem to deter him much, though, because soon Rory was pawing at the foam and trying to lick it from his fur. Greg snorted.

Rory leaned down further, underestimating the force of gravity on his tiny body, and slipped off the edge of the tub and down into the bubbles.

“Shit,” Greg gasped, hopping off the counter. But Mycroft already had the soaking wet fur ball in his hands and was holding him away from his body. Rory was shivering and squirming, acting like he wanted to go hide, but Greg just took him and went to wrap him in a towel.

“Probably about time I got out anyways,” the ginger murmured, standing up and stepping out slowly, droplets of water splashing over John and Amy, causing them to shake their ears dry. He’d slipped a towel around his waist by the time Greg had Rory calmed down.

“He’ll be okay,” he said, scrubbing to get his fur dried. He couldn’t help but smile at how pathetic the cat was. Mycroft smirked and scratched his ears as he passed the two to get at his pajamas on the bed. He could still hear Greg talking quietly to the kitten when he slid under the covers.

About ten minutes later, Greg was in bed, too, his arm around Mycroft as he rested his head on Greg’s chest. Mycroft tapped at his Blackberry, checking on a few things before he put it away for the night. The kittens were on the bed as well, scrambling over their foster parents’ bodies as they tried to find a place to get comfortable. Greg used his free hand to flip through the channels, landing on a rerun of Doctor Who.

He proceeded to sing the theme song obnoxiously, a grin plastered on his features. Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. “What? You know you love it,” he pointed out as the music came to an end.

“Has anyone ever told you - oh, how do I put this delicately - you’re a twat?”

“Mycroft darling, twat is my middle name.”

The trio of kittens had settled behind Mycroft, close enough so that if he rolled over he’d squish them. He pursed his lips and let his fingers trace circles on his boyfriend’s chest through his t-shirt, asking absentmindedly what episode it was.

“Uhh, _Midnight_.”

“My favorite.”

“Really?” Greg frowned, eyes still on the television. “I always thought _Blink_ was the best. The weeping angels are scary as hell.”

“Hm, they used to be,” Mycroft allowed, “but in the later episodes there are so many plot holes it’s ridiculous. With _Midnight_ you get practically the entire episode in one room, with humanity as the scariest part, and I like that.”

“Never did find out what it was...”

Mycroft hummed in agreement, feeling a warm kiss pressed to the top of his head. He closed his eyes, a small smile on his lips, and fell asleep to the sound of Greg whispering in time with Jethro, ‘ _in the middle of nowhere_ ’.

 

A week after the kittens had been welcomed into Greg and Mycroft’s home, they roamed the flat freely, Mycroft having had the idea to buy small collars with bells for them; this way it was easier to find them if they hid under the furniture. When the men weren’t home, they often found something new to get into or knock over, never really permanently damaging anything. They were wrestling on the floor between the kitchen and the living room when Mycroft walked in.

He was home from work early tonight, his plan to take Greg out to dinner once he joined him. Setting his briefcase and umbrella down by the door, Mycroft slid his jacket off and put it over the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table. The kittens took to him immediately, swarming around his feet and tugging at his shoelaces.

“A-Amy, Amy no,” he berated lightly, attempting to escape their tiny claws and teeth. Approximately two minutes of him dodging their swipes passed before he gave up, grabbed one of the paper wads Greg had put in the bathroom for them, and sat down with them, back against the refrigerator. 

The crinkling had their ears perk up instantly, Mycroft’s lips quirking upwards at the sight. “Would you like it?” He teased, holding it in front of them. Their eyes were as wide as they could get, John mewing when he moved his hand around. “Alright, here.”

The small toss had them all sprawling across the kitchen floor, racing to see who could get a good hold on it first. Amy was the fastest, crawling on top of her brothers to get to the toy. Mycroft chuckled as she got her mouth clamped to it, quickly bringing it so her whole body was wrapped around it, her back legs kicking. John and Rory lost interest and resorted to playing with each other.

“I almost forgot: I have something for you.” Mycroft stood up and went over to his briefcase, entering the combination and clicking it open. “I thought since you all would be here another week, it would be a good idea...” He took the plastic tube his surprises were sold in and pulled it open, the sound catching the attention of the animals. The jingling of the bells had John walking over to see what was going on.

“Here you go.” Mycroft rolled one of the brightly colored balls across the room. John hesitated at first, unsure of what it was, but Rory came up behind him and proved it was no big deal once he began pawing it around. Amy dropped the paper wad and looked at Mycroft expectantly, to which he rolled the last two toys onto the floor.

He closed his briefcase with a smile and tossed the plastic in the bin, listening to the new sounds that filled the flat. Leaning against the counter, he watched them, every so often checking his Blackberry.

Probably half an hour after he got home, Mycroft could hear Greg arrive, stopping outside the door to finish a phone call. He sat his stuff with Mycroft’s on the table, looking down at the cats.

“What’s this?” He asked, smiling across at Mycroft.

Mycroft shrugged. “Toys.”

“We didn’t have any toys.” Greg was grinning now as he walked slowly around the kittens to where his lover was standing.

“I bought some,” he dismissed it, though his eyes shined knowingly at what Greg was getting at. 

“You _like_ them,” the detective taunted. Mycroft smirked and pecked him on the lips.

“Of course I like them; they’re delightful to be around.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mycroft Holmes,” Greg warned, giggling. “You like these guys, and I’d wager you like other cats, too.”

“Oh really?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“You’d lose your money in that wager, dear.”

Greg snorted and kissed him again, deeper this time. He was still smiling when he pulled back and walked away toward the bathroom. “I knew you were a cat person!"

 

“What are you doing?” Mycroft closed the flat door behind him and set his umbrella and briefcase on the floor to the side. In the living area sat the younger Holmes, slumped sideways in an armchair, two kittens on his chest.

“You weren’t answering your texts.”

“I was in a meeting. You could’ve texted Anthea.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Boring.”

John sat stiffly on the sofa, Amy in his lap, chewing at his fingers. He smiled apologetically at Mycroft, who merely pursed his lips in response.

“Who are you watching them for?” Sherlock asked as Rory buried his face in his scarf. The consulting detective didn’t look at Mycroft as he spoke, instead favoring the idea of watching John and Rory as they snuggled up to him. He scratched their ears absentmindedly.

“A friend of Gregory’s, I should think.”  Mycroft sniffed. “How long have you been here?”

John was quick to check his watch. “Erm, ‘bout half an hour.”

“Without causing any permanent damage?” The ginger’s eyes roamed around their surroundings, scrutinizing every detail. “I find that hard to believe.” He frowned and ambled to the bookcase to check the order. “Would you like some tea, John?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Didn’t offer _me_ some,” Sherlock muttered.

“If you wanted some you’d have made it yourself,” his brother pointed out.

“Hmph.”

Mycroft went silently to sit in the armchair separate Sherlock. “Well, what is it? It can’t be that significant, given you haven’t asked me anything yet.”

His question went ignored, naturally, for a minute of silence until John spoke up. “Sherlock wanted to see the cats,” he sighed, disapproving eyes turning to look from Mycroft to his brother and back.

Mycroft rubbed his temples. “You can’t just waltz into my home whenever you please,” he sighed, watching as the Calico hopped off Sherlock and came trotting his way. He smiled slightly as John stopped at his feet; he looked as though he intended to jump, but Mycroft was quick to pick him up instead. His annoyance was subdued a little after a warmth grew in his chest as John purred in his lap. “Cats don’t qualify as an emergency.”

“Don’t have a case.”

“I haven’t got anything for you.” His eyes flicked up to his brother. “Go find one somewhere else.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “What about Lestrade?”

“I’m sure he’d have called you.”

The consulting detective sighed. John took the opportunity to ask to use the loo. “Just down the hall; it’s difficult to miss.”

“Thanks.” Setting Amy on the cushion beside him, he got up and left.

After a minute, Sherlock broke the silence. “Didn’t you used to hate animals?”

Mycroft ignored him.

Sherlock fished around in his coat pocket before pulling out a packet of cigarettes. Mycroft leapt up and hurried across the room, plucking it out of his brother’s fingers. “Hey!”

“No smoking in here,” Mycroft told him, shoving the half finished pack into what Greg called the ‘junk drawer’ in the kitchen. “Nicotine patches can be found in the bathroom cabinet.”

Sherlock groaned. Mycroft went over to pick up the discarded kitten and smooth his fur down. A door shut in the background.

“John, we need a pet.”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “We don’t need a pet, Sherlock.”

“We’re getting a cat,” he announced, standing up.

“Sherlock-”

“Or a guinea pig. Or a bird!”

John was still protesting when he was dragged suddenly from the flat. Mycroft heard him give in down the hall, “You can have a _fish_. But you gotta promise to feed ‘im.”

It wasn’t until he visited next week that Mycroft saw the beta fish swimming happily in one of John’s old coffee pots.

 

Halfway through the second week, Mycroft found himself trapped in a particularly stressful negotiation. Towards the end of the days his mind would drift to his temporary flatmates - what were they up to, how were they doing? On Tuesday he had to stop himself from looking forward to getting home because of the cats. On Wednesday he didn’t bother. He tried to ignore it, but he could see Greg was picking up on his warming up to John, Amy, and Rory. The detective had stopped teasing him after week one, though, so that wasn’t too bad.

Friday night came and Greg was curled around Mycroft asleep; the kittens could be heard wrestling in the living room, bells on their collars jingling. Mycroft lay awake, staring at the clock as it flipped. 12:00 am. An hour after he’d tried to get to sleep, and his mind was still running. He hated to admit it, but it was all because of one thought:

The kittens are going home tomorrow.

Well, today, technically.

Shifting slowly so as not to disturb his partner, Mycroft got out of bed, pausing to make sure Greg was still asleep. Sure enough the man just rolled onto his stomach, sighing as he pressed his face into Mycroft’s pillow. Mycroft took that as his chance to tiptoe out into the main room.

The scene that greeted him brought a fuzzy feeling to his chest. Amy and Rory were flopping around in front of the sofa, on which John was relaxing, his front leg hanging off lazily. Mycroft smiled and sat down in front of the sofa, leaning against it. John took that as his cue to go chew on his hair, the man rolling his eyes.

Several minutes of kitten wrestling passed before Amy gave up and went over to rub against Mycroft’s side, signifying she needed to be petted. Mycroft complied without complaint, feeling his heart lurch as the now familiar sound of her purring reached his ears. Rory sat a few feet from them, watching. Mycroft eventually took Amy in his arms, flipping her on her back like a child to rub her belly. Her eyes fell closed as he did so.

Mycroft was too distracted to notice the padding of socked feet through the hall until he hit the creaky floorboard in the entrance. Greg didn’t say anything until he was sitting on the floor with his boyfriend, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Sleep troubles?” He asked tiredly. Mycroft nodded and sat Amy on the floor. “S’it work?”  The ginger bit his lips. Greg sighed. “Can I do anything?”

Mycroft looked over at him. “I’m fine, I’ll get over it.” He smiled weakly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Greg crinkled his nose and shook his head. “Nah, it’s okay.” He moved to wrap his arm around the other man, smiling to himself as Mycroft’s head rested on his shoulder.  
“I’m gonna miss ‘em too, you know,” he murmured several minutes later. Mycroft was silent. “Here.” Greg stood carefully, pulling Mycroft with him onto the couch. He laid down, tucking the decorative pillow under his head.

Mycroft settled himself on top of him, laying his head on his chest and intertwining their legs. John - who had hopped off earlier - now took his chance to lay down on their feet. Amy and Rory curled up on the rug together, Amy licking her brother’s ears.

Greg’s hand traveled up and down Mycroft’s back gently. It took no more than five minutes before the ginger was sound asleep, Greg smiling and closing his eyes to rest beneath him.

 

“Thanks for watching ‘em, mate.” Dave - Greg’s friend from work - ran a hand through what remained of his hair. “With Dazzle over there-” he motioned over his shoulder with his thumb to the Rottweiler in the kitchen, “I just couldn’t’ve done it.”

“Wasn’t a problem,” Greg shrugged and handed the carrying cage full of kittens over to the other man. Mycroft stood stiffly behind him. Dazzle whined and pawed at her crate.

“Your Rottweiler’s named Dazzle?” Mycroft queried, eyebrow inching upwards.

Dave laughed. “Yeah, the girls named her.” He sighed and nodded. “Well, I got some paperwork to catch up on, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Greg looked back at Mycroft, “I’m the same. We’d probably best be going.”

“Thanks again. Serious.”

“Like I said, it wasn’t a problem. They were lovely.” Greg smiled.

Dave lifted the cage up to about eye level and addressed the cats, “Say goodbye guys!”

Greg and Mycroft took brief turns sticking their fingers through the bars to get licked. With that, the men said their goodbyes. 

On their way home, it was Mycroft who broke first and admitted he missed them already. Greg was quick to agree.

 

A month later and the kittens were but a memory. Mycroft and Greg had returned to their normal lives of hard work, stress, and making sure Sherlock didn’t get himself killed. Mycroft only really thought of the animals when Anthea had told him to get a cat, claiming it would be a good stress reliever. Naturally he’d dismissed her comment and went back to his business.

Mycroft had noticed Greg acting excited all week, but couldn’t put his finger on what was so brilliant. He pretended to ignore it to give the man his privacy, but it tugged at his thoughts now and again. It wasn’t until one Friday he discovered his secret.

Mycroft had gotten home early and was sipping a cup of tea and watching Doctor Who when Greg got there. The detective hovered in the doorway for a minute, just grinning.

“What?” Mycroft asked suspiciously, setting his mug on the table.

Greg put his hands on his hips. “I got you something.”

“Another toy?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Greg bit his lip. “C’mere. Stand right there.”

Mycroft did as ordered and stood in the entryway, arms folded over his chest. His boyfriend disappeared outside again, coming back in with a carrier. Relaxing, Mycroft went to look inside when Greg sat it down on the kitchen table.

Inside, a medium sized ball of brownish fur shuffled around. Mycroft considered the tabby. It was probably a year old, looking more like an adolescent than a kitten but still definitely not an adult. Yellow eyes looked up at him.

“I’ve been calling her Donna.” Greg was standing behind him, looking impressed with himself. Mycroft straightened up and turned to face him. “Since she was your favorite companion and all. You can rename her if you like. After all, she’s yours now.”

Mycroft allowed a small smile onto his lips before cupping his lover’s face in his hands and bending to connect their lips; a few seconds and they broke apart. “Thank you,” Mycroft told him quietly, a blush rising in his cheeks. Greg grinned. Behind him, the cat meowed. “And no, I believe Donna will suit her just fine.”


End file.
